Breakfast was silent.
The long dining table separated us like an invisible wall. I sat at one end, quietly stirring my tea, while Zayn sat across from me, scrolling through his phone as if I didn't exist.
"From today," he said without looking up, "there will be rules."
I raised my eyes. "Rules?"
He finally looked at me, his expression unreadable. "This marriage works only if there are boundaries."
I nodded slowly. "I'm listening."
"You will attend events with me when required," he continued. "You will dress appropriately. Speak when spoken to. And most importantly—" his gaze sharpened, "you will not fall in love."
The words hit harder than I expected.
"I wasn't planning to," I replied, my voice calm despite the ache in my chest.
"Good," he said flatly. "Because I won't either."
He stood up, adjusting his cufflinks. "My driver will take you wherever you need to go. You don't leave the house without informing me."
I clenched my fingers under the table. "I'm not your prisoner, Zayn."
He paused, then looked at me. "No. You're my wife. There's a difference."
I wasn't sure if that made it better—or worse.
As he walked away, I realized something unsettling.
These rules weren't meant to protect me.
They were meant to protect him.
From emotions.
From attachment.
From love.
I stared down at my untouched breakfast, my appetite gone.
This marriage had clear rules.
Clear boundaries.
But one question refused to leave my mind—
What happens when hearts refuse to follow contracts?